Inner workings.. made external

-The occasional conversations with my keyboard-

We were talking thunder

The rain was knocking on my window panes relentlessly, as though begging to be let in. Like it could not stand being resolutely shut out of the warmth of homes in the dead of the night.

You would think that a symbol of solidarity would have gotten used to loneliness by now. 

This isn’t a particularly clear memory, or the most detailed account of our encounters. But sometimes, it takes the most muddled of circumstances to allow a few single details to shine through. And that would be enough. Because memories are things to be left alone. You turn them over again and again in your mind, trying to find something new. You try to access some deep crevice within your brain where the entire experience lies, nestled comfortably, waiting to be aroused from a drugged sleep. But the old makes way for new, and we subconsciously filter memories, sometimes losing the most important insignificant minutes of our lives. 

I don’t know why or how, but we were talking thunder.

"Now." I said, and the same word left your lips just a quarter of a heartbeat later. Miles apart, we do see the same streak of lightning across the sky, and hear the same accompanying thunder. Somehow I found someone to test out this theory with, and I found it in you.

Moments later, listening to the distant echoes of thunder with the magic of childlike wonder spread over me like covers, I mused that I would never ever find someone as selfless like you. 

And I was right.

There will always be a part of me that wishes you were more like thunder than lightning; gone too soon, shining too bright for it’s own good.


You knew it but you wanted to feel it


Wanted the giddy thrill of liberation from being but one insignificant being amongst a backdrop of strange people, and even stranger skyscrapers… so that you might treasure familiarity.

Wanted to sit silently in an empty and cold room void of any memories so that you may know what fullness feels like.

Wanted to have your life imitate art forms; fluid and ever changing, so that you may appreciate stillness and routine.

And now that you have all you ever wanted, you know what you have always known;

The grass is greener where it rains.

Seeing things… changes you as a person.
I may be forever changed.
Rome 2012.

Seeing things… changes you as a person.

I may be forever changed.

Rome 2012.


When the Moon fell in love with the Sun.


No one could fathom the reason why.

One warm and inviting, the very source of Life.
Every morning He rose, without fail.
Even when you couldn’t see Him, you knew He was there.
He had to be there.
His light might be overshadowed on days, but His Life-giving presence was daily unmistakable. 

The other was detached and cool.
Her silvery light was beautiful and intriguing, but She always seemed many lightyears away. 
Many have loved and dreamt under the light of the Moon,
but none have ever felt Her presence. 
There were days She hid behind clouds, and it seemed as though She was not even there.

Opposites attract, but they will eventually repel.
The Sun said: Your friends are the stars that sit silently in the sky.
The Moon said: And yours are the little people on that planet.
The Sun said: Why can’t you come out in the day?
And then the Moon said: Why can’t you be with me in the night?

It was thus decided.

The Moon said: I want you to take back whatever You have given me; I want no remembrance of our past.
The Sun said: But I cannot do that! Without my light, you will no longer be seen by anyone. It will be as though You ceased to exist. 
But the Moon insisted.
And being very persuasive, the Sun caved and agreed.

Immediately, the Moon was no more.

They wept 70 days.
70 days it rained on Earth, and the people on this planet hid in their houses and lit candles on the dark Moonless nights.
They complained about the Moonless nights, but deduced that at least they still were left with the far more important Life-giving source.

For them, that was enough.

And so, no one ever saw the Moon again.
How could they?
Her light was never her own.
When She was loved, She shone brilliantly in the night sky, and lovers loved under her light.
Alone, she was but one of the billion orbiting planets.
Not even the Sun would have been able to tell her apart.

So the people of Earth lived through their fallout, because they still had the Sun.
But on crisp summer nights, a select few lovers would bemoan their loss of the moonlight.


People lived by the Sun,
but they loved by the Moon.


Dark Clouds

The full weight; the full impact has hit home ground.
And I feel it, I really do.
You know; only people who have cried their hearts out understand this:
It translates into physical pain.
Actual physical pain; in the chest where I suppose the humanized organ called the human heart resides.

You see, I had a dream.
I had a plan, an ideal, which enraptured me like none other.
It set my soul on fire; something which could, for once in my entire life, actually be attainable and achievable and not subject to environmental circumstances.
The outside world had nothing on it. Nothing.
You don’t have to compete with others for a slot, a space for it to exist.
It could take form if you wanted it to.

That dream symbolized the beginning of the end of wanting, of needing.
It is in itself a form of completion, but a completion which would offer unexplored incompletion, and yet if more never comes, it is in itself; complete.

Fire catches easily, and it consumed me for a huge part of my life.
Flames give way to embers, but not this.
The flames just caught on and it became a reason to keep doing what I’m doing; it became a goal that made everything I am doing make sense and remain bearable at times when they weren’t.

I had all these dates, and plans, but maybe not enough realism.
Realism is the enemy of all dreams.
And as I look upon the path, I see it now has become a slope, and a treacherous one at that.
Dark clouds, dark clouds.
I am exactly where I am, I stand where I stood, but it is no longer within reach.
It always remains; just a little out of reach.
And it is killing me.
There are days.
Good days and bad days.
Days of optimism and days of realism.

It wasn’t supposed to be so complicated.
But somehow it has become just that.
There are so many things, so many reasons I don’t understand;
Their importance, when placed beside the dream, is absolutely nothing to me.
And now I’m seeing, right before my eyes, the gradual deconstructing of everything I’ve ever wanted, and all for what I perceive to be nothing.

Nothing changes everything.
Nothing changed everything.
Nothing is going to eat at my soul, little by little, until the dreams it was so full of;
Turns into nothing.